Painful Blisters
by FallenShateiel
Summary: DracoRon... Part of my project... summary inside


**Painful Blisters.**

C: one shot

R: M

P: DM/RW

S: Draco is a bit unstable, mother commited suicide. Ron is upset that Viktor Krum is back to fight the War.

* * *

I'm a little more than somewhat messed up.

I admit it.

How could I not. Even I- Whom- Dare- Not- Become- A- Death Eater...

Of course I thnk thats a horrible typical view of me. I mean everyone is this damned shack thnks I'm the enemy and not the crazed lunitic who wants to burn a hole through my arm...

No, thank you.

Besides I was betrothed to Pansy Parkinson... no wonder I came to the supposedly rolling my eyes "_Good Side_" However anyone with garden gnomes instead of house elves are the "Good Side"...

Well, I was taught that profanity was never something that was appealing.

So I swear all the time.

Fuckity Fuck, Fuck Fuck!

I just realized that I'm mumbling aloud to myself.

Huh---- no one's listening.

* * *

OK. Granted I shoudl have known that screaming about suicide would've alarmed these bloody Gryffindors.

Yes! Come save me from drowning in a muddy puddle!

Wait, this is not a puddle... its a bowl with some unidentified substance in it.

"Just eat it Malfoy." Weasel, my biggest fan.

Hahahaha...

With humour like that I could really will go over the edge.

However, I've only just recently admitted to myself that I have a slight morbid infatuation with him. The red hair, sky blue eyes. I mean how could you not when he's the essence of innocence the bane of every virtue that is untainted. Plus, when he gets mad and goes maroon a fire rages in his eyes.

The fire to my ice...

With an Avada Kevadra in between us.

God, I hate Potty and that filthy mudblood.

Yet even if they weren't in the picture, I wouldn't touch Weasel. I mean poor, not very intelligent, red hair, sorry excuse for a wizard and a mudblood lover?

Please, I'm already mentally sick. I don't need to be physically.

I must've laughed out loud. Weasel is giving me another strange look. At least with him I deserve no pity. I mean that famous Quidditch player whose dating the mudblood is his hero. That he hates, yet only because he's jealous over the mudblood. Unless...

Its the other way around?

Now that would be interesting.

So he justifies himself by hating me.

Why not?

* * *

The old crackhead is back to questioning me about the night my world left the realm of sanity...

Though I would rather not remember it. Nevermind letting this fuckin' old coot know that.

The visions of it overwhelm my senses as the striking blue eyes take me in. Throwing my own coherent thoughts out the window I'm seeing so many things at once:

My father beating the house elf with a broken fire whiskey bottle.

My mother dyeing her hair blonde.

The first time I was hit.

The time I watched a little boy be hit by 'Crucio'.

Finally it stops.

I must be just over 9 years old because my hair is still white and my grey eyes are less silver. I was not crying but hollow, black bags stand out from my high delicate cheekbones. Standing with no prose, and emotionless as the planet Pluto. There's dirst flying all around me, because my father's associates' for the evening are in their resting place finally after weeks of torment.

Buried in the rose garden.

Poetic Justice for a Death Eater.

It begins to rain as I watch my father throw the last of six bodies in the freshly dug graves. Sweating and breathing heavily. He has no idea his son who looks like his is watching.

Blonde hair nearly white, grey eyes that are as cold as an ice storm. Pale skin that is as though the Undead inhabit these bodies. Delicate features, frail nearly angelic bodies.

Never judge a book by its cover.

Teh last violation of my mind is the one that overthrows my sanity balance.

I remember it well. My mother never went into the rose garden, saying that she would rather play her piano or go to Diagon Alley for the day. My father never cared, but sent out house elves to do the gardening. After I was 9 being sent out to play became a dreadful thing, so I read.

My father liked it, claiming I could be Head Boy and Quidditch Captain. More books were brought in, tutors were a daily routine. All because my father chose to characterize me into the perfect son. And I am.

I am the perfect son ofr a Malfoy. For a while I could've been the Slytherin Heir. But I wasn't.

My father was my father.

My mother... she only ever asked of me to learn to play the piano and read one Muggle book. Dante's Inferno...

It became my obsession. The Seven Gates of Hell, the haunt s of the piano keys. Until I found a violin on my dorm bed in Third Year. A violin that became the bane of my essence and my reason to know passion.

Torturing Bloody Gryffindor's lost its touch, the big oaf Hagrid fell to the back of my mind. Only upon seeing them did that fire ignite into something dangerous.

The slap on my cheek, was enough to bring me out of my delirium.

Detestable humiliation.

Even if I nearly lost my arm and dignity to a damned mutated bird. I nearly had my revenge, it was snatched away.

Not that I didn't have more chances. I did, and I took them.

Pissing off the infamous 'Trio' sitll brings my old smirk to surface. I hate them.

No matter, if I have a crazed infatuation with one of them.

* * *

End of Fifth Year. Father's in Askabn, Potter is no longer clinically insane and I am considered the most vile this to walk the earth since The Dark Lord frist rose.

Hexed by 5 different people, late on getting home.

Pissed off.

I drop my things and yell at the house elves to clean it. Go up to my room to look presentable for my mother. Brushing my hair, taking out the gel she detests. Puttiong on pale blue robes...

I go down to her sitting room.

No one there.

I ask her house elf where she is.

"Rose Garden Sir." Squeaky voice laced with acid.

I find this strange, yet shrug and go out there. The sun is setting and the horizon looks like a bloodshed has been going on. I continue down the pathway to the black gates.

Black Gates of Hell.

Opening it, I see the ivory swing moving, the flowers in full bloom. Rose bushes, cherry blossom, orphids... a willow tree.

But there is something distorting this vision of Heaven.

The willow tree, swinging back and forth on a rope... like a violin repetoire in pensieve delirium.

Blonde hair with brown roots. Pretty face worn by time.

Hanging, swinging from a rope of straw.

Body foul falling into a puddle on the end of her feet.

I scream.

Never stopping.

* * *

Like a painful blister in my mind I find myself no longer being raped of my memories.

I hate this old arsehole.

He pisses me off.

Its dinnertime and Dumbledore is in a hurry to leave to speak with Snape about the Death Eater meeting tonight.

Whatever.

* * *

Weasel's been staring at me.

Usually he's glaring at Krum and Granger.

But no. He's staring at me, not anyone else like Potter whose speaking to the Imps.

Even if I sneer at him he continues to stare.

Bastard.

* * *

"Malfoy. I can't believe it!" Softly said and incredious.

"Can't believe what?" I say it a little disdainfully.

He leans on the sitting room door frame. HIs look is smug, but his long slightly built body is seductive. He catches my eye as I finally look up. Smirking.

"You may think I'm daft, but I'm not." I refuse to rise to the cockiness of his voice.

"Don't flatter yourself." I turn away to hide my flush.

"Come on, Ferret. I've seen you stare at me. Leering and getting off on hwat you see." He's standing right behind me.

I don't like this. He's not in a good mood and he hates me more than anything in this room.

"Do you think of me when you touch yourself..." Whisper in my ear, destroying what self- discipline I have.

"N n n ...no..." I need to get away.

He's pressed up hard against my back.

Too hard to be comfortable3 and least likely to mean pain.

"I could hurt you until you scream in agony, then come back for more." He's right. Oh Merlin, he's right.

He's biting into my neck until I feel the skin break.

Crying out I try to wrench myself out of his grasp. Failing and causing his arm to tighten around my chest. I'm scared, he's stronger than I , both of us know it.

A little terrified I still as he laps at the blood droplets I imagine are forming.

"Weasley, if you don't let me go right now I will scream and unless there's vampires that walk in daylight than I will have to tell them that you feed on me." I am barely able to breathe he's hurting me so badly. I feel so frail, and I don't like it.

His erection is digging into my back, and I know soom something unrepairable will happen. I have never felt more alarmed and helpless in my life.

His breathing is uneven and heavy. His other hand going lower on my body, to rub my own unfortunate arousal.

I expect him to say some snide remark about it. But he nibble sthe top of my ear and moves his hand down to roll up my robles. I groan aloud unable to stiffle myself. A harder press on my chest.

Past my under garments. Touching my organ. My own breathing of air hitches and I graon loudly. Pulling back the foreskin thin long fingers tracing the vein along my shaft... near to having my knees buckling he speaks:

"Get down on your knees." I never listen to orders, but I at this point have no choice.

On my knees my robe hitched up to my waist, my under garment gone. I hear a chuckle behind me.

"So you _are_ white all over." A touch of his hand on my rear is enough to bring me keening. Tracing the drop of my lower back as I push my arse in the air and arching. Chuckling he takes away his hand. I hear him leave and come back a few moments later. A wet finger in hte most vile part of my body. Slick and being rejected by my body, I struggle to relax. When the second is added the pain is doubled. I hiss through clenched teeth, as the fingers sissor deep within me.

"Relax." Another fucking demand.

I do, despite myself. Its fine and uncomfortable until it touches a certain point of my body. A small blush and the explosion of ecstasy forces out a small scream.

A few more probes and I can imagine my body being red and flusteredc.

When he takes his finger away, I keen for more.

It is when he finally enters me I'm being ripped in two. Slowly he goes in the pain is earth shattering the stinging and burning sensation of my anal and his cock's friction is more than I can handle. Moving faster and harder burns me more. I'm crying and he dosen't care, groaning loudly and excited by my body clenching around him tightly. My hands balled up in fists. My face screaming into the carpet...

He fills me and falls exhausted on my broken body.

Cursing that it was 'wicked' and 'brilliant'... whilst I allow the tears to flow as my body is still in unbearable pain.

Like a painful blister.

_Le Fin_


End file.
